“ cavalier to no one in particular

[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; His original outburst was so vehement, and his eyes so wide in remorse a moment later, Phoebe desisted with no fuss and no hesitation, simply bowing her head in acknowledgment to his words. Whether she thought that this "she" was really coming back or not was of little importance; he had such an aura of honesty and hesitation, that striking him was an offense close to striking a child. The mare simply could not bear to be the cause of his disappointment, the reason his innocent face fell. "I do understand," She told him, smiling gently in reassurance. "I'll tell you about the places I've been, and meet this lady with pleasure when she does finally arrive home." The promise was genuine and true. "Friend."

As the words left her lips, Phoebe turned her head to one side, as she always did when a sudden thought had occured to her, silvery forelock falling to one side as she pondered the horizon, green and grey with the first streaks of dawn. Friend. As easily as the word had flown from her mouth, hoping to comfort that lonely boy before her, she had suddenly realized that the concept of a friend was new and foreign to her; having only the most glancing of relationships with those she passed in her hope to see the whole homeland. Now, she supposed, would be a good a time as any.

[incipher]

F  I  V  E  L |  

[/size]At this point, Fivel might have been kicking his heels together. However, he contained his glee and let it bubble and boil within, even when he could hardly stand to keep his mouth shut, skeleton sealed tight within the happy-static of his ignited skin. “Thank you,” was all he permitted himself to express, though the broad, toothy grin accompanying it probably was more intimidating than intended – Fivel plodded a giddy step or two closer, his brown eyes a-glitter most jocundly. “From what I have heard, friends don't keep secrets, unless it's for each other. So one day I will tell you anything, everything.” Nodding his golden crown affirmatively, blinking, and then looking away, Fivel considered what he just said, realizing it was another blatancy, albeit a sincere one. Anything, everything. He wasn't sure what he had meant by that, if he had even meant anything at all. It was the blitzkrieg euphoria of having it come true – his first friend – and yet, he mustn't get ahead of himself. There were a plethora of reasons to keep his distance (and one thousand more to stay close), and Fivel backed away hesitantly – as another wolf cry pierced the darkness.

He didn't startle, but his body tensed and a queer sense befell his porcelain bones. His nostrils flared, testing the atmosphere for a taste of danger, the weep of a vague threat poised in the night. Sea-salt pooled on his tongue, gathering in the back of his throat until eyes burned, but nothing more – until it came again. Long and moaning, the wolf howled, and it was close. “It doesn't make sense,” Fivel muttered bitterly, his tail flicking in belligerent agitation, “wolves don't come here. They just don't.” Yet, they obviously do. Disgust wrinkled his nose as he looked to Phoebe, wonder glittering precariously in the honey frame of his irises, “so, what do we do?”

* feel free to play with the wolf thing as you wish, if at all [8

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[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; The spotted mare turned her head away from the ocean and the dawn, ears pricked and listening to the low, mournful howl of two predators. Instinctively, her hindquarters spun until she stood beside Fivel, and her nostrils flared, mirroring his. The howl was close, but the wind was unfavorable, bringing no trace of scent to her; her ears, too, could detect nothing aside from the relentless pounding of the sand, as the tide retreated with the night.

"We wait, I suppose." The mare said calmly, glancing quickly at their surroundings and assessing. "I can't imagine that they favor the sand too much. And besides, if worst comes to worst, we can always just go into the water." With the water being considerably cool, it was an undesirable prospect, but not entirely unfeasible.

ooc Mine feels so short :c

[incipher]

F  I  V  E  L |  

[/size]“We wait, I suppose.” Wait. The idea was fluster-worthy and Fivel expressed his opinion, snorting incredulously. Waiting, he thought, would bring death. Yet, he reasoned that drawing attention to themselves would bring death, too. So he succumbed to the chains of the four letter word, his unease as loud as static, as colorful as flesh burning into ash. “If worst comes to worst, we can always just go into the water.” Silently, dismay evident in the guilty swing of his head, he looked at her. Fivel’s lips were a tight line, pressed in indecision: there was a secret, a fault, and he was not sure if he could stand the humility. Of course, she was a friend now, wasn't she? Not a stranger. And a friend would not mock him for his weakness or flaws; a friend would accept them and be of help if they could. She would help him, wouldn't she? Phoebe. “I… I can't swim.” She would save him, if it came to that. “My mother, well she never got the chance to teach me.” It was a calamitous feeling, the sick knot that tangled in his stomach, twisted his gut. He only liked to look at the water, let it lap gently at his hot ankles, but no, no he had never dared to go further than that. His mother had told him that it would swallow him if he tried, and she had said one day she would teach him how to survive the ocean. But that day never came, and now Fivel was faced with wolves to the front and the sea as his second enemy to the back. He had nowhere to look, nowhere to truly run. He had only this, her.

“If worst comes to worse, I can lead them away.”
Phoebe.

* nonsense; mine's just blockquote'd to hell, lol.
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[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; "No." The decision was final, and her tone told him so. Chivalrous though it was, she simply refused to let anyone sacrifice themselves for her. "You won't need to swim. They'll never step foot in the water; you'll hardly need to let it touch your knees." She told him, more gently, but still firmly. Normally she would have more pity for the poor boy, one who had also lost their mother at a young age, but when such an obvious option was available, some tough love may be required. The tide was receding, and he would never be in any sort of danger; that lay on the sand, where capture was entirely possible. The howl sounded again, a little closer, and she backed up until the waves lapped against her heels. Her face was calm, but alert. "You'll be fine, Fivel."